Flashbacks
by ChristianGateFan
Summary: When Sam receives a nasty head wound, he forgets nearly four years of his life. Dean brings him to Bobby, and all of them deal with the emotional fallout of the lost time. Is it permanent or is it not, and what impact will it all have on Sam either way?
1. Chapter 1

I know I haven't posted anything in a few days, and it may be another couple of days or so before I get a complete new chapter of anything else up, what with school now, but I had to get this story for the Summer of Sam Love fic exchange done. :) I finished it Sunday afternoon and posted it there, and then there was school and homework yesterday, but now I've got time to start posting it here. I hope ya'll will like it, too. :) Please let me know what you do think, and enjoy the first part! Thanks! And just in case you wanted to know, I'll post the prompt I wrote for here.

Prompt: Sam gets a nasty hit on the head and forgets the past four years and still thinks he's at Stanford and Jessica and John are still alive. No angels please.

Flashbacks

Ever since they'd wrapped up the case at that old high school of theirs, Sam had been more brooding than usual. _Something_ was on his mind that he wouldn't share—as if that was new these days—and Dean was just glad to find another case to jump right into. It took the edge off the frustration, being able to do something beyond driving or sitting in a motel room, wondering if anything would ever be normal again.

Coming back was supposed to be a good thing. Now it was all even more screwed to hell than ever before.

The lead took them to Little Rock, Arkansas, on the report of two or three strange murders. It didn't take long to figure out they had a shapeshifter on their hands, and almost even less time to track the thing down.

It was almost a disappointment. Dean had been hoping for something a little more involved; barely two days, and this thing was nearly in the bag. They found the shifter holed up a dirty apartment in downtown Little Rock, and it bolted before either of them could get off a shot. They chased it out a window onto the fire escape, but it hadn't gone down.

It was waiting. It jumped Sam, and they both tumbled down the grated metal steps to the alley floor. It was Sam's head that hit the pavement at the bottom, but with his brother unconscious there was no-one else to get in the way when Dean squeezed off two shots from the platform as the shapeshifter tried to run. The thing went down a few yards beyond Sam, and Dean was free to all but trip down the steps to get to his brother.

"Sam?" Dean shook him, but there was no answer. "Sammy?" He rolled him onto his side to get a better look at the back of his head, and grimaced when he saw the blood. "Damnit." He'd just shot something that looked like a man. He couldn't call an ambulance to come for his brother here, and they had to get out of the alley before someone reported the gunshots.

With no other choice left to him, Dean hoisted Sam over his shoulder and staggered to his feet under the weight of his annoyingly tall little brother. "Yeah, you better believe you'll be paying for this," he huffed, and headed through the cold for the car as quickly as he could go.

Back at the motel, he laid Sam out on one of the beds and cleaned and bandaged the wound as best he could without cooperation from his patient. He couldn't be sure a hospital run wouldn't be needed later, but he was hoping to avoid it if they could. Maybe they were _both_ legally dead now, but that didn't mean he liked hospitals any more than he ever had.

Still, Dean wouldn't know anything until Sam woke up—unless, of course, he didn't do _that_ any time soon, which would also be cause for concern.

It took most of the night, and he drifted off sprawled atop the comforter on the other bed, but as dawn pushed light under the edges of the drawn curtains he blinked awake and saw that Sam was stirring as well.

Dean got up groggily and padded back to the bed where he'd put his brother, dropping onto the edge of it and smirking a little. "Welcome back."

Sam brought a hand up his forehead and held it there for a moment before opening his eyes. When he did, he squinted up at his brother in confusion. "Dean?"

"The one and only," he answered, clapping a hand on his brother's leg.

Sam jerked a little. "Yeah…I got that," he said, and pushed himself up on his elbows, still not quite awake. "But what are you doing…here…" He scowled and glanced around at the same room they'd been in for the past two nights. "Where the hell _is_ here?"

"Uh, the motel room, dude," Dean frowned.

"Motel?" he asked uncomprehendingly.

"Yeah, the one I dragged your ass back to after that shapeshifter sent you down a flight of stairs in the alley."

"Shapeshifter?"

Dean let out a breath. "Look, you hit your head. The details'll probably be a little fuzzy for a while."

"Dean, what the hell are you talking about? What _details_?"

"About the hunt we just finished—or _I_ just finished," he answered in frustration.

Sam sat up all the way now, pushing back against the headboard. "Is this some kind of joke? Some kind of stupid Halloween game for you?" he spouted angrily. "I don't see you for two years and then you show up and highjack me? What is _that_?"

Dean blinked. "Excuse me?" When he didn't move Sam did, all but climbing over him to get quickly off the bed and to his feet, backing away.

"This isn't funny, Dean."

"_What's_ not funny?"

"Where are we!" Sam demanded.

Dean stood slowly, brow furrowing. "Little Rock, Arkansas?" He wasn't sure why he formed it almost as a question, but Sam was scaring him. Halloween? Two years…?

Oh god.

Sam's arms flung out to his sides as he huffed. "Great. That's just great. You couldn't just highjack me; you had to take me halfway across the country. Did Dad put you up to this? Some kind of half-assed plan to get me back into the family business?" he spat. "It won't work. I have a _life_."

Dean swallowed and licked his lips once nervously. "Sammy…"

"It's Sam."

He held up his hands placatingly. "Whatever, but look, just listen to me for a second, okay? You hit your head."

"Yeah, maybe on the headboard of the bed I was asleep in _with my girlfriend_ when you dragged me out of my apartment! Seriously, Dean, did you think this would get you anywhere? What the hell is wrong with you!"

"Nothing's wrong with _me_, but something is sure as hell wrong with _you_!" Dean shouted back, lurching forward to grab his brother's arms and shake. "That was almost _four years ago_, Sam. Snap out of it!"

Sam shoved him away. "Get off me! What are you talking about?"

"Think, Sammy. This is not Stanford. It's Arkansas. It's February 2009, not October 2005." He hoped that would do it. He hoped it was only a dream Sam had been having, that he was disoriented, that he would snap out of it in a minute and remember where he was. That was all it was. That _had_ to be all it was. They were screwed if that wasn't all it was.

Sam just stared in angered confusion. "What?"

"You hit your head," Dean repeated.

Sam looked like he wanted to object, but his hand went to the back of his head and hit the bandage there. He yelped quietly, and grimaced as he followed the gauze around—the strip wrapped around his head to hold the bandages on at the back. His eyes widened in shock. "So you dropped me," he protested, with a lot less conviction.

"Sam, I did not drop you. That's crazy. A shapeshifter dropped you—down the stairs on a fire escape."  
"That's not _possible_…"

"You don't remember _anything_?"

"There's nothing to remember!" he shouted suddenly. "This is some kind of elaborate prank! I'm not falling for it! It's October 30th. It's October 30th…" His head dropped as he pulled in air heavily, and he saw his shirt—a dark plaid typical of his wardrobe, but apparently not one he'd had back at Stanford. "What the hell is this?" he questioned, picking at it. "This isn't mine."

Dean swallowed again and tried once more to get closer, holding his hands up again. "Yes it is. You bought it a few weeks ago when we were running dangerously low on clean clothes."

"_No_, I—"

"Sam!" He grabbed his brother's arms again, but instead of shaking forced Sam to look at him. "It's your shirt. It's yours, okay? I'm not joking. Why would I joke around about something like this?"

Sam stared back at him, clutching Dean's arms in return as he tried to stay upright. "Oh god you're not kidding…" He swayed, and Dean made sure he landed on the edge of the other bed.

"Whoa, easy…"

Sam said nothing for a long moment. "Four years?" he asked weakly.

Dean slowly lowered himself to the edge of the bed beside him. "Not quite, but…"

Sam shook his head. "N-no. It's not possible. I _just_ fell asleep!"

Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god. "Sammy…" he began unsteadily. "You don't remember _anything_? Anything at all?"

His brother looked at him, wide-eyed and scared and not at all the changed Sam he'd known since returning from hell six months ago. "Nothing. I swear. I swear to god I just fell asleep beside Jessica."

* * *

"_Dean, calm down. You're overreacting_."

"Overreacting? Bobby, my brother can't remember the last four years of our lives. Of all of it, those four years are probably the most important to have. He has no clue what's going on!" Dean hissed into the phone.

"_And I doubt it'll last more than a few days, at most. He'll be fine_."

He nervously paced the sidewalk outside the motel room. "And what if he isn't? What do we do then? Sometimes, you know, people hit their heads and they lose stuff that never comes back."

"_It shouldn't come to that, but we'll cross that bridge if we get to it. I'm telling you; just give it a few days_," Bobby answered calmly.

"Well what the hell am I supposed to do with him right _now_! I have no idea how to handle this. I don't know what to tell him, or not to tell him, or—"

"_I don't think I know any more than you do_."

"Yeah, but—"

"_Look, if you're that worried then bring him here. We can figure this out together, and maybe you won't lose your head_."

Dean let out a breath. "Yeah. That sounds a lot better."

He heard Bobby sigh on the other end of the slightly-crackling line. "_Fine. I'll be here_."

"Great. Good. We'll be there tonight." He snapped the phone shut and pushed back into the room. Sam was sitting on the bed, going through his bag and scowling.

"Come on; pack that thing back up. We're going to Bobby's."

Sam blinked and looked up. "Bobby's? You mean _Uncle_ Bobby? I thought he and Dad weren't on speaking terms."

Dean started in on packing his own bag, back to his brother. "Dad won't be there," he answered brusquely.

"Why not? Where the hell _is _Dad? You're always with Dad."

His jaw clenched. "Well I'm not right now."

He felt Sam's eyes in his back. "What? He let you hunt on your own?"

"Four years, Sam. I'm thirty." Not that he enjoyed the fact, but it was true. Maybe it had only been true for two or three weeks, but it was definitely true.

Sam stood up behind him, huffing loudly—uncomfortably. "This is crazy. You can't be _thirty_. I-I'm not—"

"Twenty-five, dude."

Dean turned just as his brother sat down again. "This is crazy…"

"You're telling me." He picked his packed bag up and hefted it over his shoulder. Sam stood again as he headed for the door, and a new urgency broached his voice when he spoke next.

"What about Jessica? Where is she? Does she know where I am?"

"Not now, Sam." He glanced back to see his brother holding both hands to the sides of his head.

"Oh god. I-I was going to propose soon. I must have done it…am I _married_? Oh _god_ please don't tell me I have kids I can't remember…"

Dean was glad he was at the door and Sam couldn't see his face, because the sob he swallowed back pulled a rather obvious grimace over his expression.

There it was—what Sam would have had if Jessica hadn't died, if they hadn't had to find Dad and hunt the demon and save the whole damn world and weren't still at it even now.

He wouldn't have changed so much…or at least not in the ways he had. He would happy. He might have been married and he might have at least one of those kids by now.

Sam was about to hyperventilate behind him, and Dean finally managed to swallow and shut him up. "Sam! _Not now_," he said more forcefully. He shifted his bag on his shoulder and opened the door. "Let's go."

* * *

The ride to Bobby's was uncomfortable and mostly silent. Under normal circumstances Sam might not have minded, but it was maddening now.

Dean wouldn't tell him _anything_. Part of him wanted to let himself believe that meant it was all just a joke, and part of him worried unceasingly over it.

God…what if he really was missing four years of his life? Where were Jessica and Dad? Surely he'd graduated law school by now…didn't he have a job? Why had he and Dean been on a _hunt_ together?

He hadn't seen Bobby in years—at least as far as he could remember—but even under the circumstances it was still good to see him when he opened the door and let them in, and hugged him briefly.

Still, he wasn't so sure he wanted this insane idea of a situation to be confirmed.

"Let's have a look at that head of yours," Bobby said after a moment. Sam shrugged and reluctantly allowed him to lead into the kitchen, with Dean trailing anxiously behind. He sat in the chair Bobby indicated and waited uneasily while the older hunter carefully pulled the bandaging back to look at the wound.

"Ow."

"Sorry."

"So what do you think?" Dean asked.

After another moment or so Bobby shrugged, and gently tugged the bandage wrap back into place. "I think it's not as bad as it could be. You really should be fine, Sam, and I'm sure everything will come back in time."

Then it was true. Somehow he doubted Bobby would be in on some stupid plot just to scare him.

Oh god.

Sam swallowed. "Right…thanks." He glanced down at himself, and really noticed now the smudges of dirt on his arms and across his clothes. He stood quickly, grimacing when he realized that hadn't been such a bright idea. Bobby gripped his arm for a moment to keep him steady as he held a hand to his head.

"Sam? You okay?" Dean asked.

"Yeah….uh…I think I'm just gonna go take a shower before I hit the hay."They'd been driving for sixteen hours. They could have stopped for the night, but Dean had refused to do it. Sam supposed his brother wasn't any more comfortable dealing with this alone than he was himself.

"You might not want to take those bandages off your head yet," Bobby countered.

"Fine; I'll take a bath."

He couldn't get out of the room fast enough.

* * *

"What do you really think?" Dean asked, once Sam was safely in the shower.

Bobby sighed. "I don't know, Dean. You can never know with things like this. Either it'll come back, or it won't. If it does, it may take time and it might not."

"Damnit. So what are we supposed to do now?"

"Get some sleep," Bobby grumbled. "It's two in the morning."

"Bobby."

"Keep him calm, for one thing. And this isn't a bad place for him to be. He has memories here from the past few years. The familiarity may help."

Dean growled under his breath in frustration. "So what…we just sit here and wait? I don't know if we can afford to take the time to do that."

Bobby dropped into the chair Sam had been in. "Well…_you _could go. I know there's a lot to do out there these days."

"And leave Sam with you when most of his memories of you right now are from when we were kids? He doesn't really know you right now; I can't do that either. I don't think we need to freak him out even _more_," he sighed.

"Your choice."

He shook his head. "No it's not. I have to stay."

Bobby nodded. "Okay."

Dean knew his friend was giving him that look, but what he didn't know was why. "What?"

"Dean…look, I think we _should_ give him time to remember some things on his own, but…I also think that he should be told a few things up front—about your dad and his girlfriend, for starters. He should be warned."

He grimaced. "Why?"

"Either he'll remember eventually, or you'll have to tell him later anyway."

"But—"

"I know it won't be easy, but if we don't tell him he'll go on assuming they're still alive, and it'll hurt him more when he realizes they aren't. We should tell him now."

Dean groaned. "God, you have no idea how much I _don't_ want to do that."

Bobby crossed his arms uneasily. "I could do it, if you can't," he offered quietly.

He shook his head slowly. "No…you're right. He needs to know, and…I should do it. He should hear it from me, and I should probably do it by myself."

"You sure you want to do it alone?"

"No. But it's better for him that way."

"All right," Bobby sighed uncertainly. "If you think so."

"Yeah…"


	2. Chapter 2

Here ya go. :) Enjoy! Can't wait to hear from ya'll. Thanks!

Chapter 2

It couldn't have been more than twenty or thirty minutes, but it was hard waiting for Sam to come out of the bathroom. Dean knew Bobby was right, but that didn't mean he liked the idea of breaking his brother's heart all over again. It would have happened anyway, however he found out about Dad and Jessica…but Dean hated to be the one to do it.

He felt even worse when Sam finally trudged back out to the kitchen, clean and in fresh sweats and a t-shirt, ready to hit the sack, but somehow looking even worse than when he'd disappeared into the bathroom.

"Sammy?"

His brother lowered himself into a chair again and sat in silence for a moment. "I have scars I've never seen before," he said eventually, arms hugged around himself.

Dean sat beside him, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "I guess you do."

"So…it really has been four years," Sam swallowed. "Since I can remember, anyway."

"Closer to three-and-a-half, if that makes you feel any better, but…yeah, Sam. I'm sorry."

"Damnit…" His head ducked, in a classic Sam Winchester attempt to hide or fight back the tears that Dean knew were there anyway. "So what then? Just wait, like Bobby said? Stay here? Have you called Dad yet? Shouldn't you call him? I mean, I don't even know if anything has changed or if he would even want to see me or what, but he would probably want you to call him—"

"Sam. Sam, calm down, okay? You need to know a few things." Under Dean's request Bobby had already made himself scarce.

"Like what?" Sam asked restlessly.

Dean wasn't sure how to prepare himself to do this. He'd been trying to think of a way for the past half-hour, and nothing had presented itself. So he jumped in.

"Look, you have to find out anyway, and Bobby and I didn't think it would be all that great to just…let you remember on your own…" Not even to the bad part yet, and he was already staring at the floor between them.

"Dean?"

"It's not good." He glanced up long enough to see Sam grimace.

"_What_, Dean?"

He took a deep breath, and somehow managed not to look away. He wasn't sure how he did that and kept his throat open at the same time. "Sammy…Dad…and your girlfriend, they…I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Sammy, but they're...gone."

Sam stared at him in horror. "What?" he croaked.

"Both in the first year after your memories stop…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't want to just tell you like this, but it would have been worse to just _remember_, without any warning or anything, we thought, and—"

"They're…gone?"

"I'm sorry," Dean repeated, finally looking away again. It was pathetic, but he didn't know what else to say.

"But—no."

He swallowed hard and forced himself to focus on his brother again—the brother who was suddenly once more the young, brokenhearted kid he'd bundled away from Stanford. "Sam, you know I wouldn't lie to you about something like this," he said quietly.

Sam's stunned gaze faltered, and his eyes slipped to the floor as he pulled in an unsteady breath. "N-no…no you wouldn't."

But Dean had seen the big question, even though Sam didn't want to ask it because he didn't want to believe. He had to answer it anyway, because Sam had to believe it, and because he couldn't give an effect without offering a cause. He didn't want to get into details, but he had to tell his brother _something_, and it had to be the truth.

"We found out that the thing that killed Mom was a demon…and it killed them too. God, Sam; I'm so sorry…" Dean tried to reach out, though he wasn't certain what he could do, but Sam moved. He was up from his chair and out the door before he had the chance to try.

"Sam, wait!" Dean jumped up, and heard the screen door at the back of the house slap. He tried to follow, but Bobby put an arm out to stop him just before he could get through the door himself. "Bobby—"

"Give him some time."

"But—"

"He needs it, Dean. Don't worry; we'll keep an eye on him. He's not going anywhere."

He sighed, but Bobby was right again.

* * *

Even with the lights in the lot Sam didn't quite see the salvage yard cars in his way as he stumbled away from the house, and he bumped into several before he finally hooked a hand on one and pulled himself around to sink to the ground behind it. He knew he was sobbing, but there wasn't much he could do about it now.

He wasn't sure how long he was alone, but by the time Dean found him he had calmed down. His chest still hurt and his throat was still tight and his stomach was still roiling, but on the outside he was only sitting, staring at nothing in the darkness beyond where the lights reached. It was cold, but at least there was no snow or he might have frozen by now.

He knew it was Dean who crouched beside him because it was always Dean.

He didn't know exactly how the last three or four years had gone, but it had always been Dean. Ever since they were kids, it had been Dean.

"Did we at least send the damn thing back where it belongs?" he asked after a moment.

And because it was Dean, he didn't have to say anything else for his brother to know what he meant.

"No—we killed it."

Sam looked at him. "Really?"

"Son of a bitch is a doornail," Dean nodded, smiling a little.

He huffed quietly. "Huh. Didn't know you could do that."

"Yep."

"Oh...good." He looked out again, because it was easier.

"You okay?"

"No."

Dean was silent for a long moment. "Hey, Bobby's got some pancakes in there."

Sam shrugged once. "I'm not hungry."

"They're fresh."

"Dean—"

"We didn't really eat today..."

He loved his brother, but right now he only wanted to be left alone. "Maybe later," he sighed.

"Okay." Dean paused again. "So you gonna stay out here for a while?"

"Yeah."

Out of the corner of his eye Sam saw his brother nod in understanding, and then Dean's hand was clamped on his shoulder. Dean used the shoulder to push himself to his feet, but he gave an extra squeeze before he let go. "Okay." Then his coat was dropped in his lap.

Dean left, and Sam pulled the coat on and let his head drop back against the car behind him.

* * *

"How's he doing?" Bobby asked once Dean made it back inside.

He shrugged. "All right. Excuse me for being cliché, but as well as could be expected, I guess."

Bobby picked up the plate of pancakes he and Dean had barely touched. "He coming in?"

"In a little while."

"Oh. Well...." He trailed off, shrugged, and located the plastic wrap to put the food away. "Like I said, just give him some time. If he's not back inside by morning, then we can worry."

Dean shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and stared at the floor for a moment. "Bobby...what if he doesn't remember?"

He wrapped the plate in the plastic wrap and opened the refrigerator door. "He should."

"But what if he doesn't? What if all he ever knows about the past four years is what we tell him?"

Bobby slid the pancakes into the refrigerator and and looked up quickly, wondering what in hell the boy was getting at. "What?"

Dean crossed his arms uncomfortably. "What if Sam can't remember? What if all of it's gone? Would we just tell him everything?"

He slowly shut the refrigerator again and trailed back toward Dean. "I guess so...We wouldn't have much of a choice. He's got to know what's going on; we need him in this. We've got a huge fight on our hands here."

"Don't I know it," Dean huffed. He perched on the edge of the table, still scowling, but now he seemed to be thinking hard on something. Somehow the expression unnerved Bobby a little.

"Couldn't he help just as well...without knowing _everything_?" Dean mussed quietly.

"_What_?" Bobby repeated.

The boy looked up quickly. "Huh? Oh...never mind."

"Yeah—never mind," Bobby nodded firmly.

Thankfully Dean seemed to hear him.

* * *

It was another hour or so before Sam dragged himself inside, and by then it was nearly dawn. Dean had convinced Bobby to go on to bed, and he waited for his brother himself—wide awake on the floor in the living room. Even though it was his turn, he'd left the couch for Sam.

Sam, for his part, didn't say anything when he finally made it inside. He took in Dean and the makeshift bed on the floor, sunk into the couch, and was out almost immediately.

"You're welcome," Dean muttered. But he didn't mean it. The usual annoyance that would have laced the statement just wasn't there. He couldn't muster it up, and he didn't want to. Suddenly—for now, at least—all of the shit from the past few months meant nothing.

This was Sammy, and the kid needed his brother, and Dean would be there.

He was only able to sleep on and off, and Sam didn't seem to sleep much more—at least not well—but both of them must have managed to finally get to the deeper realms. One moments he was watching the blackness of the living room slowly lighten to dawn, and the next he was waking to the bright light of noon.

Bobby had let them sleep.

Dean sat up slowly, and realized that Sam was already awake and perched on the edge of the couch. He didn't look to have been awake for long, but that intense look on his face had to mean something.

"What's up?"

"The apartment building...and the stairs—the shapeshifter." He scowled. "God, that thing was ugly. It...jumped me?"

Dean blinked. "Yeah. Hey, that's something."

"It's all of ten minutes, Dean—out of three-and-a-half _years_," Sam answered miserably.

"Well it's better than nothing, and it means all of it's probably still up there somewhere." He felt guilty for not knowing how to feel about that. He should want his brother back—_all_ of his brother.

But he couldn't shake the feeling that Sam without the past four years _was_ having his little brother back.

"We don't know that."

"Sam, stop it. It's only been two days; give it more time." And he was talking as much to himself as to anyone.

Sam just sat where he was, on the edge of the couch hunched over his knees.

Dean sighed. "Hey...how are you doing?"

"Just peachy," he mumbled.

"That's my line."

Sam smirked weakly. "I remember that much." The smirk quickly faded, and he looked like he wanted to say something else. Dean waited. After a moment he sat up a little more and took a deep breath.

"Dean, did I...did I ever even _see_ Dad again?"

Oh.

He winced. "Yeah...of course you saw him." Sam just looked at him. "What?"

"And?"

"And what?"

Sam grimaced. "Did he still hate me, or...?"

Dean really, really did not want to get into this, but with that opener he had no choice. He couldn't let Sam wonder about something like that. No matter how stupid about everything they had all been, he couldn't let Sam think...

"What? No, he...never _hated _you..." he answered uncomfortably. Sam was still looking at him with that damn searching kicked-puppy expression on his face. Maybe it had changed a little over the years, but that expression was something that was distinctly Sam, no matter many memories or not that he had.

"Look, we were all together for a little while, before it happened, and...no, it sure as hell wasn't perfect or anything, but it's not like you were still at each others' throats 24/7...I guess. I'm sure you'll remember soon enough anyway..."

Sam swallowed and looked away. "Yeah...great."

* * *

For the next two days, there was nothing new. Sam remembered the last few moments before the blackout, and with it came the _sense_ of the missed time...but no more memories. The sense of something missing changed his perspective, but at the same time it still felt as if he had just been with Jessica a few days ago, dreading Halloween and midterms.

Then came the pancakes.

They'd all been a little unnerved that first night, and Bobby had been awake enough that he'd made _way_ too many pancakes. The stacks had lasted three days, and every day he'd seen the plate being dragged in and out of the fridge, resting on the counter or the table...

They didn't _mean_ anything. They were only pancakes.

Then that night he looked at them, and he saw something else.

"Cookies."

He heard Dean say something, but he was staring at the pancakes. The few that were left were piled haphazardly in the center of the plate, and the folded paper towel that had been sitting on his empty plate as he walked past had fluttered off and landed on top of them.

Suddenly a hand was on his shoulder, and he glanced over to see that it was Bobby, with Dean right behind.

"What?" his brother asked again.

Sam looked back to the cookies—pancakes. They were pancakes, but he was seeing cookies, and instead of a napkin he was seeing a note, and a counter instead of an old table. It was dark, not a room lit by fluorescent lighting.

"Chocolate chip cookies. I...went somewhere, and...when I came back Jess had left them for me," he said quietly. He didn't see them looking at him strangely, but he knew they were doing it. "It was something I didn't remember before," he clarified, looking up.

Understanding dawned. "Oh...really?" Dean asked.

"That's all?" Bobby asked. "Anything else?"

"I don't think so..."

"Bobby."

"You sure?"

"Bobby," Dean said more insistently.

"What?"

Dean invented a reason to pull Bobby out of the room, and as Sam heard them whispering indistinctly in the living room, Sam felt a horrible twist in his gut that told him something was wrong—or was about to be wrong.

Then he looked at the cookies again—pancakes, damnit—and saw the fire.

* * *

"Dean, what is it?" Bobby asked quietly, pulling Dean's hand from his shirt as they withdrew from the kitchen.

"That's...not good," Dean answered anxiously.

"What's not?"

"What he was starting to remember. The crack on the head only blacked out everything after the day before I showed up at Stanford," he whispered. "He has to be remembering the night I dropped him back off—the night Jessica died. The image he just described couldn't have been more than a few moments before."

Bobby sighed. "Dean, if it's going to come back we can't stop it."

"I _know_ that, but..." He grimaced. "If it's all really up there, and it's going to come back anyway, I...just don't see any reason to hurry it along. You know what I mean?"

He didn't have a chance to answer. Seconds later a strangled cry echoed from the kitchen, and Dean was rushing back in.

"Crap..."

Bobby followed him, and his throat clogged at what he found.

_Too late._

Dean was catching Sam as he went down on his knees, head in his hands and close to hyperventilating. "No...No! Jess!" He broke into violent sobs, and Dean said nothing as he pulled his brother close and threw Bobby a helpless look.

Bobby wasn't sure if there was anything _he _could do, but he crouched silently on the floor beside them—if only to be there.


	3. Chapter 3

here's the conclusion; I hope ya'll like it. Thanks for reading!

Chapter 3

Dean was finally able to get his brother off the kitchen floor and out to the couch, but attempting to get him to calm down and really sleep was useless. Sam was awake most of the night, drifting in and out, crying sometimes and sometimes not.

Dean sat with him, worried and unable to pull himself away. He didn't move until early that morning, when Sam finally seemed to be sound asleep—more from exhaustion than anything.

He found Bobby in the other room, flipping restlessly through one of his scores of old books.

"Couldn't sleep either?"

The older hunter shrugged. "How's Sam?"

Dean dropped into a chair. "Out, finally."

"Did he remember anything else?"

"He's been tossing and turning all night trying to get to sleep, muttering stuff. Let's just say I'm pretty sure most of his memories are back by now," he winced.

Bobby winced. "It can happen like that, I guess."

Dean slumped in the chair and huffed, "Yeah, apparently. And here I was all ready for it to be some long drawn-out process."

"It can be; it just wasn't this time. It's debatable whether he's lucky for it, but..."

"I vote not."

Bobby sighed.

Dean headed back to the living room to catch what few hours of sleep he could. Sam was still out when he woke, but by the time he'd grabbed just enough breakfast to keep himself from starving—he wasn't really hungry beyond that—his brother was up. Dean stepped back into the living room and found Sam standing by the couch, unmoving, arms crossed and focused on what must have been a rather fascinating spot somewhere between the wall and the floor.

"Sam?"

He looked up, but not directly at Dean. Then he walked over and hugged him—tightly.

Dean returned the embrace awkwardly, only for a moment. "Uh...hey?"

Sam let go and turned away, pulling in a deep breath as his hands scrubbed through his hair. "Why didn't you warn me about what happened to you?" he asked quietly.

He blinked. "I...guess this means everything's back now?"

"There are still gaps up there, but I've got the basics, yeah. Why, Dean?"

"Well..." Because part of him had still hoped that maybe that part wouldn't come back—that somehow he could find a way to explain everything happening now without giving that part away. It never would have worked, but the irrational hope had been there just the same. "I just thought I had more time to do it, that's all."

Sam huffed. "Fine."

"Look, I'm sorry."

"I said fine."

Dean frowned. "Fine. Are you okay?"

He slowly turned around again, facing his older brother but still not quite looking at him. "I remember most of it now; it's in perspective." He crossed his arms again and finally looked up. "I'm fine."

"Right. Sure." He nearly stammered, not sure what else to say. Sam offered a forced smile before he headed past Dean for the kitchen.

Just like that, the new Sam was back.

Dean still didn't know how he felt about that.

* * *

"What the hell is wrong with him?"

Bobby looked up from the car he was working on. "What, Sam?"

"Yes, Sam," Dean groused. "I don't know what else we're supposed to do. His memories are back; we should be on the road already."

"I thought you two were leaving this afternoon."

The boy shook his head in frustration. "I asked Sam last night if he was ready to get moving today, and he said he didn't care."

"Then what's the problem?" Not that he didn't think there was a problem, but Dean needed to think it out.

He shrugged and leaned against the car. "I don't wanna leave with him like he's been the past few days. He's back all right, but he's...still off."

Bobby wiped his hands and straightened. "You mean how he hasn't been talking."

"Or talking but not really saying anything, yeah. I know that not talking about things has gotten a lot more normal for him lately, but this is just bothering me. Is he okay, or isn't he?"

"I think those older memories are still seeming a lot more recent. Maybe he remembers the in-between, but he also remembers what it felt like when he didn't—and that was only a few days ago."

Dean looked away. "Yeah...I kinda figured something like that.

Bobby crossed his arms. "Then what'd you ask _me_ for?"

Dean sighed and shrugged. "Guess I hoped you had some kinda other explanation."

"Dean, if Sam's not gonna talk to us about it, then all we can do is what we've been doing—giving him time."

"Time, memories...it's all I've heard about for more than a week," Dean growled. "I just wants things back to freakin' normal."

"It'll happen. Just—"

"Give it time," the boy huffed. "Thanks. I got it." And he walked away.

* * *

He found Dean sitting between the car hulks, in the spot Sam had chosen days ago. He hadn't really been looking for his older brother, but somehow he didn't really mind the fact that Dean was here.

"Dean?"

His brother glanced up from his beer. "What do _you_ want?"

"Nothing..." Sam held up the up-opened beer in his own hand. "You beat me to it, that's all." Dean almost smirked, and Sam sat down and opened his drink.

"Great minds think alike, and all that fun cliché crap, I guess," Dean said after a moment. The beginning of an attempt at peace—taking back the hostility he'd shown when his brother walked up.

Sam's eyebrows went up. "Yeah, sure." They both felt silent again, nursing their drinks and staring across the salvage yard as they rested in the shade of the vehicle they sat against.

"Still not talking, then?"

"What's there to talk about?"

Dean frowned and took a swig of his beer. "Maybe about how you've been sittin' around for days not saying anything?"

He grimaced and stared at the dusty ground. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Yeah, I figured that out on my own."

Sam remembered now why things seemed so strange between them. He remembered that he was keeping secrets—remembered how serious those secrets were. Maybe he didn't _want_ to talk about this whole memory thing, but...Dean deserved more than nothing on that one. Sam felt bad enough remembering everything he was _already_ keeping from his brother.

He remembered the reasons he was keeping those things to himself, and he stood by them, but...if he had to keep that, he could give Dean this.

"It hurts, Dean," he said finally, still staring at the ground. His brother looked up again. "Remembering the time between then and now has helped...but it still feels a lot like I was just with Jessica a few days ago—like even if I'm not talking to him, Dad's still out there if I need him—like all we ever had to worry about was small game, and not stopping the end of the world."

"Sammy..."

"I remember everything and I know it's not, but it still _feels_ like it's all true, and it hurts," he swallowed.

Dean let out a breath. "Sorry...guess I can't really imagine what this whole thing's been like for you—losing everything and getting it back like that and all."

"I really will be okay. I just don't know how long it's gonna take," he said quietly.

His brother looked at him. "You shoulda just said so, you know...instead if making me wonder exactly what the hell was bothering you.  
"I didn't want to talk about it," he reiterated.

Dean shook his head. "Nevermind."

"Dean—"

"Look, it's ok. I get it. I...probably would have felt the same way," he said, and sounded honest. With that he went back to his beer.

Sam sat back and took a swing of his own, and this time the sitting in silence wasn't so uncomfortable. "You want to get moving, don't you?" he asked finally.

Dean shrugged. "Don't get me wrong...It's nice being here, with Bobby and all, but I just don't feel right _staying_ here with all the crap going on out there."

He nodded. "You're right; we should get going." Out of the corner of his eye he caught his brother's eyebrow go up.

"You sure?"

Not really. It still hurt; he could still feel Jessica beside him that last night, and he could still see Dad standing there in that hospital room, not wanting to fight and asking for coffee, and remember brushing his father off—all much sharper than the last time he'd thought about either memory _before_ the hit on the head.

It hurt, but he would be fine. He could get through it, Sam supposed, as long as Dean was around...still alive, and not in hell.

Just because there were things he needed to keep to himself now didn't mean he loved his brother any less.

He was doing it _for_ Dean—for the rest of the world, yes, but...for Dean.

"Yeah, I'm sure. We can leave in the morning, if you want. I'll be fine," he said, giving Dean a small smile.

Dean looked at him and nodded slowly. "Okay." Then he smiled a little, too.

* * *

Dean stood with his brother and Bobby by the Impala the next morning, their things packed and in the trunk, and ready to go. Bobby pulled them both into a brief embrace, one after the other. When he let go of Sam he looked at him for a long moment.

"You're sure you'll be all right?"

Dean watched his brother nod. "Yeah...thanks for everything, Bobby."

"All right—just try to avoid smacking your heads on things from now on, okay boys?" he smirked.

"Oh believe me; we'll try," Dean answered honestly. With that he went around the car and climbed in. Sam was in and closed his own door just before his brother did. "Later, Bobby," Dean called.

Bobby waved, Sam waved back, and they were on their way. Sam was quiet for the first thirty miles or so, and Dean didn't particularly have anything to say either. He just drove.

"Where are we headed?" Sam asked finally.

Dean shrugged. "I'm not sure yet."

He'd just wanted to _get moving_, and he hadn't taken the time to sniff out any specific potential case. Apparently Sam hadn't either, or he wouldn't be asking; he'd be pulling out a folder stuffed with two dozen printouts from the internet.

"Good."

"What?" Dean looked at his brother. "What do you mean?"

Sam looked out the window and crossed his arms tightly. "I uh...I think I want to go to California."

"California as in...?"

"Palo Alto," he answered quietly.

Dean blinked a few times and focused on the road again. "Oh..."

Sam took a deep breath. "I haven't been back since Jessica died, Dean. You'd think in three-and-a-half years I'd have found the time...but I was always with you, and we were hunting, and I just...didn't think about it. I didn't _want_ to think about it." He grimaced and glanced back at his brother.

Jessica's grave. Sam was right; he hadn't been since right after the funeral, right before they'd left California—a long time ago.

Dean sighed. "Well if you want to..."

Sam stared out the windshield at nothing. "I want to; I think it's time."

He hesitated, unsure if that particular trip would help Sam or just hurt him. But he supposed it wasn't for him to decide. Sam was on his way to being all right, and if he wanted to do this Dean didn't think he could question.

But he would be there, because no matter what crap Sam got himself into, no matter what he did, that was his job. That was what brothers did, and he was going to do it. So he nodded.

"Okay...California it is."

Sam looked at him again, smiled faintly. "Thanks, Dean."

Dean smiled back in response, and made a mental note of which direction to get on the interstate later as he cranked the radio.


End file.
